Which might explain the second sticking point of his story: that Eithan Arelius, renowned Underlord, had wanted him.

“He came here looking for recruits,” Lindon explained, “and he thinks we’d be…suitable.” Something haunted his expression for a moment. Maybe hesitation. But what was there to hesitate about when it came to an Underlord’s personal invitation? For an Iron to exchange words with someone like Eithan was enough good fortune for five lifetimes.

What was he worried about?

But there was a more urgent question. She didn’t think she’d missed so much—if she had slept for days, she would have expected hunger, thirst, a powerful pressure in her bladder. But besides her weakness, which was plain and clear after a fight, she felt like she’d only slept for a few hours.

“How long was I out?” she asked.

“Only six hours,” he said, and that settled that. Still, it tore a new hole in his story, and one that she’d almost missed.

“You’ve got a fox’s luck,” she said. “Kral didn’t so much as cut you?”

He gave her a guilty look, pressing a hand to his shoulder. “Forgiveness. I didn’t mean to suggest that I walked away without a scratch. He ran a Forged spear through, right here.”

She stared at his shoulder, which he rubbed as though it ached. Even if Lindon was exaggerating about being run through, which she doubted, he’d still been struck by a Highgold’s Forger technique less than half a day before.

“Underlords must have some great medicines, I’d guess.”

“It was mostly the Fishers who worked on you,” Lindon said, still rubbing his shoulder. “Eithan didn’t do much, but they tied themselves into knots trying to serve him. If I hadn’t told them they should be gone when you woke up, I’m sure they would still be in here.”

“I’m not concerned about me,” Yerin said. “How are you moving that arm? You should be dead and buried, but you’re up and hopping in six hours.”

Lindon’s brow furrowed. “I have an Iron body now. Just like you.”

“Not like me.”

Jai Long outclassed her in power, but her skill was the highest card she had to play. She’d managed to avoid too many direct hits, so she’d taken many small wounds, but nothing like a through-and-through stab. Even so, she’d needed the urgent attention of a healer, and she still wouldn’t be sharp enough to hold an edge for a week or two.

That was all plain and proper, part of a normal life—she’d barely taken a step on her Path without some gruesome injury. But Lindon just walked his off in half a day.

She flashed back to a figure caked in blood and black ooze until he looked like he’d crawled out of a wildfire. She would have bet a pile of jewels that he was dead, and she was prepared to take that price out of Eithan’s skin.

Instead, he’d advanced to Iron.

What kind of body had they given him?

He picked up on her response, and his voice shook. “Is that wrong? Should I be worried?”

She gave him a light kick, shaking his perfect posture. “Your new Underlord can handle it.”

He winced. “Apologies. I accepted his invitation before you woke up.”

“You’d have been cracked in the head if you hadn’t,” Yerin said, which was true. It was the sort of opportunity that only a madman would turn down.

But that still left the ugly question: where did it leave her?

An endless winter forest stretched out before her, filled with nothing but snow and no one but her.

“No, I owe you more consideration than that.” He bent slightly, giving her a little seated bow. “Forgive me.”

She forced herself to her feet, one hand on the wall. “Don’t fuss about that. Irons are allowed out of the house without a shepherd. You’ll settle in with the Underlord, stable and true.”

Her master’s sword wasn’t in the cottage, and she needed it. When you’re alone, first look for a weapon.

Lindon opened his mouth as though to speak, but quickly shut it again. The silence stretched.

Until he jerked back as though struck, eyes widening on the window. She spun around, bladed arm poised and gathering madra.

The shutter had come apart slightly, and one bright eye was peeking through. It was framed by a few locks of yellow hair and about an inch of smile.

The face vanished from the window, and an instant later Eithan Arelius kicked in the door. “I’m sorry to disturb you, children, though I couldn’t help but overhear every word.”

Yerin’s spirit may have been drained down to the bone, but she still couldn’t believe she hadn’t sensed someone as powerful as an Underlord a mere ten feet away. At least he couldn’t have been there for more than a few seconds, or she would lose trust in her abilities completely.

“How long have you been listening?” she asked, not relaxing her bladed Goldsign.

He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “For about…four weeks now,” he said, then turned his smile on Lindon. “Now, as unique and special as you are, where did you get the impression that I wanted you and only you?”

Lindon’s expression showed only confusion, but he rose to his feet in order to execute a bow. His iron badge dangled from his neck. “Forgive me, Underlord.” Yerin would bet a stack of silver against a pile of hay that he had no idea what he was apologizing for.

“Of course you’re a treasure,” Eithan said, placing a hand on Lindon’s shoulder. Then his other hand snaked out and grabbed Yerin as well—she stopped her bladed arm just before it stabbed him. “But I’m not looking for a single treasure. I want the set.”

Yerin exchanged looks with Lindon, and though she gave no outer sign, it was as though her heart unclenched. She wouldn’t have to scrape by on her own after all. At least not for a little while.

“So we’re a set,” Lindon said.

“Sounds like we are,” she responded. She gave him a little smile, and he rubbed his head sheepishly.

Eithan cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said, “one half of this set is supposed to be embedding bindings into constructs.”

Lindon bowed. “Apologies, Underlord. I thought Yerin might need a familiar face when she woke.”

“That’s kind of you, and of course I have no objection to kindness. If you think kindness might keep you alive. In one year. When a Highgold is decorating the walls with your insides.”

Lindon’s head snapped up, focused on Eithan. “Honored Underlord, thank you for your consideration, but I must beg you for guidance. How can I defeat a Highgold in one year?” He sounded like a starving man asking for his next meal.

“Under the right circumstances, it’s possible for an ant to fell an ancient tree,” Eithan said. “So it’s certainly possible. But this will be the…” He hesitated. “I was going to say ‘the worst year of your life,’ but you’re very young. Let me put it to you this way: if you can hear my name at the end of this year without screaming until your lungs bleed, I haven’t done my job properly.”

Lindon paled, but his voice remained firm. “I thank you for the kindness, Underlord.” He bobbed his head to Eithan, then to Yerin, and left the cottage. Presumably to work on his Soulsmithing.